Oatmeal Raisin Cookies
by E. S. Young
Summary: Realizing that special brownies suck, no matter how special they make you feel, Max decides to fix this and attempts baking. Jude, knowing that this can't end well, decides to help, which leads to...well...The story of Max and Jude's first kiss. One-shot.


**Oatmeal Raisin Cookies**

By

_E. S. Young_

**Note****:** This is actually set several months before _I Will_, about a couple of weeks after the boys first arrive in New York City. This is the story of how the romance of Max and Jude began. Basically, this is the long version of a rather simple idea of mine, that being that Max is the one who starts everything, he's the instigator, the one who seduces dear little Judey. Then, finally, Jude just snaps and, ahem, delicately rapes him. Because Maxwell is a delicate boy, as we all know. Although, you can't exactly rape the willing, now, can you? However, that summary is rather misleading as, unfortunately, there isn't anything very sexual included in this story, sorry. But it _does _feature cookies as well as an apron-clad Max, if that tempts you.

۞۞۞

The problem was that "special brownies" weren't so special. Sure, they gave him a great, long-lasting buzz when ingested and they were easy to make, but the bottom line was that they tasted like _shit_. Specifically, they tasted like chocolate and grass (the bad kind that his dad always used to make him mow when he had lived at home—and, yes, he did know from personal experience what grass tasted like, thank you very much). So, while a special brownie promised a great high, one had to go through the agony of chewing it—the sticky, weedy morsel rolling around in his mouth and he just _knew _that there would be bits of it stuck in his teeth and he had always been convinced that flossing was just a more delicate form of torture. And then there was the process of actually _swallowing_ the crap, which was hell in itself because it felt like a gluey, chocolaty ball of yarn going down his throat (although he _didn't_ know what that was like). Then he had to wait around for it to finally kick in, and he _hated waiting_. It was something he tried to avoid at all costs, which was why he was usually late for everything.

So, when it came down to it, if one had to go through all of that just to get high…was it really worth it?

Hell yeah! Of course it was! But that didn't mean that it couldn't taste good on top of making him _feel_ good, right?

Which was why he had decided to do something to remedy this little problem. Baking was easy, a synch—at least, he supposed it was. Just throw some stuff together in a bowl, pop it in the oven for however long, _et __voilà_.

Right?

_Then again,_ he realized,_ things would probably be going a lot faster if I actually knew what the hell I was baking…_

The problem with making a dessert that would hide the taste of marijuana was finding a dessert that did just that. He hadn't the faintest idea, but, luckily, Sadie had a cookbook.

_Now, if only she actually _used _it,_ he thought. It was hard to think that Sadie could be any more appealing, but, damn…if she could cook on top of everything else… Women who baked were just hot, and there was nothing else to it.

He had to pause in his researching of the cookbook to close his eyes for a minute as he felt his neither regions grow rather warm at the thought of his sexy landlady cooking while wearing nothing but an apron.

_Ohh…damn._

Unfortunately, he'd never seen his landlady do anything that came remotely close to cooking.

This in mind, he went back to flipping through the cookbook. He raised a beer bottle to his lips, absentmindedly lifting his feet and propping them up on the table, sinking low in the seat and resting the book against his thighs. Such was the position that Jude found him in when the Brit wandered into the kitchen.

"Never thought I'd live to see the day," he said in awe as he opened to 'fridge to retrieve a beer of his own.

"Mmm?" he grunted, not looking up.

"_You_—" Jude began.

"Someone as breathtaking and utterly desirable as myself?" he interrupted. "I know. But you'd better believe it, baby, cuz…" He spread his arms out wide and grinned. " …here I am."

Rolling his eyes, Jude sardonically replied, "Well, yes, there is _that_, but I was talking about _you_ actually reading a _book_. I hadn't thought such a thing was possible. Didn't you drop out of college to, y'know…get _away _from that sorta rubbish?"

He shook his head. "S'not '_rubbish_,' ya fuckin' Limey. I'm baking."

"You're getting baked, you mean."

"_Nooo_," he corrected in a mock-patient tone. "I'm _baking_."

Jude stopped in his tracks, beer halfway to his lips. One eyebrow rose.

"_Baking?_" The Brit shook his head in amazement. "This must be a day for miracles."

"Haha," he replied bitterly. "For your information, you ungrateful bastard, I'm trying to come up with the perfect dessert to get high with, since it has come to my attention that brownies fucking _suck_."

"That _is _very generous of you," Jude admitted, albeit, his sarcasm didn't waver. "You're a regular humanitarian, mate."

"Exactly," he agreed, going back to his reading. "It's about time you started appreciating me." Suddenly, he looked back up, brows arched. "What're you doing here, anyway? Thought you'd gone to Sadie's gig with the rest of 'em."

Jude shrugged. "Nah. I'm staying in tonight." He gestured to the cookbook. "And, seeing as how you've decided to try your hand at the culinary arts, I'm rather glad I did. This way, I can keep you from killing yourself—or, at least, save the flat from being burned down."

"Your faith in me is overwhelming, Judey."

His friend shrugged.

"That's what I'm here for."

"I thought you were here to save me and the apartment from a horrible, fiery death?"

"Well," Jude said, smirking, "that, too. What're you baking, anyway?" he suddenly wanted to know.

"Uh, actually," he confessed, scratching the back of his neck, "I haven't a fucking clue. What goes good with dope, man?"

Jude contemplated this for a moment, absentmindedly taking a sip of his beer.

"Pretzels, crisps, pizza—pot pizza'd be good, mate."

"Nah. I wanna make something sweet." He grinned. "Like me."

Jude rolled his eyes—an act that seemed to be becoming a habit of his.

"Oh, well, why not just toss a bag of weed in with a cup of sugar, then, if you want it that sweet?"

He blew his friend a kiss before turning back to his book.

"What about peanut brittle?" he asked suddenly.

Jude made a face, wrinkling his nose in a rather adorable fashion.

"Okay, guess not," he admitted. "Peanut butter cookies, then?"

"Max, what is _with _you and peanuts all of a sudden?"

"I dunno. I'm just on this sorta kick where I'm craving it, for some reason."

There was that eyebrow, again—it was becoming a habit of Jude's, too, apparently.

"Are you high?"

He snorted.

"_No_—well… No. I smoked a big doobie around three, but it's, like, eight now, isn't it?"

"'Bout eight, yeah."

"Okay, so the high's probably worn off by now. Which is why," he said, flicking through his cookbook with new purpose, "I _really _need to find a recipe."

"I'm telling you, pizza's the way to go."

"I'm _not _making _pizza_, Jude! Not everybody likes salty, spicy shit when they're stoned, y'know. Some people go for sugary stuff."

"Actually, I think you're the only person I know who cures his munchies with Twinkies and Cap'n Crunch."

"You don't know many stoners, then," he retorted. "What about—"

"Not peanut butter fudge," Jude said at once.

He scowled.

"I was gonna say a nice apple tart."

Jude disagreed, shaking his head.

"Nah. Not if you wanna mask the flavor of grass. I'm telling you, you want something spicy, mate—I _know _you don't want a fucking pizza. I was thinking of something like…gingerbread men, maybe. Something like that. They're sweet, but with all the ginger and cinnamon and stuff, you won't taste the pot."

"Look, gingerbread men might be a year-round thing over in Liverpool, but over here, they're generally reserved for Christmas."

Jude narrowed his eyes, swatting at him.

"I know that, you stupid git. It's the same way in England. I was just saying—"

"Yeah, yeah, '_mah_-sk the _flay_-vuh,' I know," he said, putting on a thick, British accent as he grinned up at his friend. The other boy frowned at him and opened his mouth to fire back a retort when suddenly his eyes lit up.

"Oatmeal raisin cookies."

"What?"

"Oatmeal raisin cookies!"

"O-_kay_…"

"Why don't you make them?" Jude finally elaborated with just a hint of exasperation.

Now it was his turn to wrinkle his nose (he wasn't sure if he did it more adorably than Jude or not).

"Because I hate oatmeal?" he asked as if it were obvious. "Hate raisins, too, actually," he added after a moment. "Besides, they'll hardly get rid of the taste of grass."

"Not if you make 'em properly," Jude insisted. "With cloves and cinnamon."

"Man, you don't make oatmeal raisin cookies with cloves and cinnamon!"

"Yes, you do! You do if you want good ones, anyway. You wouldn't know, having never made them before."

"Who says I haven't?" he demanded.

Jude regarded him skeptically (those damn eyebrows—they were too expressive).

"You have?"

He grinned.

"Fuck no. My mom wouldn't let me anywhere near her kitchen—too afraid I'd burn the house down."

"Your mum's a smart woman," Jude informed him, nodding. "But like I was saying, proper oatmeal raisin cookies have cinnamon and cloves in them—also, you should use brown sugar instead of white. See, that way, it sort of caramelizes when you bake them, so that—what?"

"Are you some sort of British Betty Crocker reincarnate that you know how to do all of this? Or are you just more fruity than you let on?"

"Just for that, I'm not helping you." And with that, Jude began to pad out of the room.

"Did I _ask_ for your help, O Great Chef of Oatmeal Raisin Cookies?" he called after him. But whether his best friend heard him or not, he didn't know, as Jude did not (or refused to) respond.

Grinning smugly, he rose from his chair and began to rummage through the cupboards.

"Hmm…raisins…"

۞۞۞

So far, approximately eight and a half minutes had gone by and he had yet to smell any smoke or feel any flames licking at his feet. Which, for some reason, conjured up images of Max gliding his tongue slowly and seductively around his toes. Which was actually a rather disgusting image because he _hated_ feet and, as far as he knew, they weren't among his best mate's many fetishes.

Speaking of which, he had expected the crazy bugger to be begging for help by now, either because he'd fucked up the recipe so badly or because he was simply too lazy to finish what he'd started. Either way, he should have heard from Max by—

"_Juuudeeey…_"

Ah. There it was. The whining. It was only a matter of time, really.

Not bothering to suppress a grin, he called back, "Yes, darling?"

"How much cinnamon is too much?"

"A teaspoon should do it. Why do you ask?" he replied pleasantly, doing nothing to hide the triumph in his voice.

"Just wondering."

Three minutes later.

"Jude? _Juuuude…_" came from the direction of the kitchen.

"Yeah?"

"Which do you think Prudence would prefer—dark brown sugar or light brown sugar?"

He snorted. _What would Prudence prefer?_ _Oh come off it.._. He knew that that was just a weak excuse to hide the fact that Max had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Nonetheless, he replied.

"She's always been partial to dark brown, I think."

"Thanks."

Another three minutes passed.

"Jude—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" he exclaimed. Throwing down his pencil and abandoning the drawing he had been working on, he stormed into the kitchen, intent on giving Max hell for being such a whiney, incompetent little pillock. However, when he arrived at his destination, he did nothing of the sort, having been stopped in his tracks by the sight of Max's pert, American arse sticking out from behind the refrigerator door.

Like an idiot, he stood there gaping for several seconds until his friend finally straightened up, bottle of milk and a box of Cream of Wheat in hand.

"What?" Max asked curiously upon seeing his expression (which, he imagined, was reminiscent of a fish out of water—fitting, as that was rather how he felt).

"Uh…" His eyes landed on the Cream of Wheat and he silently thanked God for whoever had created the hot breakfast cereal, even though he had never cared for the stuff. "That's not oatmeal, mate. It won't work."

Max stepped out from behind the door enough for him to see that, in his absence, his best mate had donned a frilly pink apron that bore the words "This is What a Feminist Looks Like."

He snickered.

"You're such a woman."

"Hey," Max protested, sounding offended, "_I'm _not the one who claims to be a culinary genius, here."

"Forgive me, love, but were you not the one whining like a little girl for me to come and rescue you?"

Huffing, Max crossed his arms over his chest like a small child—a look that was, though he was loathe to admit it, utterly adorable.

"I do not _whine_."

He snickered again.

"What was the matter?" he asked, grinning. "Were you afraid the big, nasty raisins would eat you?"

"Eat me? Now who's high?"

"I'm still more coherent than you are, mate, even if you're sober—something I'm beginning to think doesn't exist." He paused, feigning contemplation. "Then again, I _did _see you reading…so, I suppose anything might be possible, now."

Max threw a dishrag at him before turning back to his sorry attempt at cooking.

"Screw you. You're just pissed because the idea of me cooking gets you all hot and bothered." He fanned himself delicately, putting on the lilting, high-pitched accent of a Southern belle. "But, _mercy_, I can feel my heart beatin' in my chest! I do believe that _y'all_ are the one givin' _me_ the vapors, Mr. Feeney!"

He laughed and took a playful swing at the American before moving to stand next to him at the counter.

"By the way," he pointed out, having just noticed something. "If you're going to be baking, you might wanna take off Sadie's shirt. Things could get messy."

"You're just using that as an excuse to see me with my shirt off," Max replied, but he began to remove the lacey, sky-blue garment nonetheless, lithe fingers slowly undoing each brass button one by one.

He tipped his head to the side, not even realizing how intently he was watching his friend before a knowing smirk spread across Max's thin, lovely face.

"See anything you like?"

He shook his head (more to clear it than anything else) and glared at Max.

"Sod off, you cocky bastard," he muttered, hoping that his embarrassment was not apparent. If he was blushing, then Max's ego just might explode.

"Hmm, interesting choice of words, there, Liverpool," his friend commented, but said nothing more as he turned back to the vast array of bowls, ingredients, and other assorted cooking utensils that he had strewn across the kitchen counter.

"So, I take it from your presence here that you're going to help me out?" Max grinned cheekily, knowing that he had won.

He sighed in frustration, running a hand through his dark hair before shrugging in defeat.

"I suppose. But only because I'll never get my drawing done with you wailing like you've got your leg caught in a trap."

This only caused his friend's smile to grow.

"Say what you want, man, but I know the truth. You're just like all the rest. Nobody can resist. In the end, they all come back to Max."

۞۞۞

He was more pleased at Jude's return than he should have been.

For the record, this _was _partially because he really did need help with his cooking. However, most of his pleasure stemmed from the fact that he just liked the guy.

Which made sense. They were best friends, after all.

But, as of late (or had it been since the day that they met?), he had begun to realize that his fondness for Jude was more than platonic. Worse yet, he was beginning to wonder if it was leaning more toward a sexual attraction.

Which was just fine, actually, when he thought about it. As much as he liked snootchie, some dick every now and then was nice, too.

And, at the moment, Jude's dick would have been especially nice. However, the problem was that he could not be sure if the Goddamn Limey swung the same way as he did. Then again, it couldn't hurt to try.

What was more, and this thought made him feel almost like a giddy teenage girl with a crush, he remembered the way Jude had watched him as he undid the buttons on Sadie's shirt. The other boy had been intrigued— more than that, he noted, recalling the intensity of Jude's stare. There had been heat in his eyes. Fascination. Lust. Hunger.

There was no denying it: Jude wanted him.

Unfortunately, Jude was hesitant. And, really, he couldn't blame the guy—he was Jude's best friend, not his girlfriend. Not doubt the other boy was thinking that it would seem crazy to just jump his bones right then and there (even if it _was _what they both wanted to do).

So, he would simply have to show dear Judey that it was perfectly okay, that the boy was more than welcome to bang him on the kitchen table if he wanted to (though he knew from experience that that wasn't nearly as sexy as it sounded for the soreness that always followed).

His plan set, he turned and slipped the pink feminist apron over his head. Then, slyly, he looked over his shoulder at Jude.

"Tie me up?" he asked innocently, fluttering the strings of the apron for emphasis.

He saw Jude's dark eyes widen just a fraction before the boy gave a jerky nod.

"Uh…sure, yeah."

Gingerly, the Brit took an apron tie in each hand, absentmindedly rubbing the rosy material between his fingers. Then, with such care and deliberation that he could have sworn that the guy was doing it on purpose, Jude brought the two ribbons together and began to make a knot.

The clever, artist's fingers were warm as they accidentally brushed against his bare back, right at the base of his spine. It tickled and he shivered with pleasure.

"Sorry," he heard Jude mumble upon seeing him shudder.

"S'okay," he said quickly, feeling a little out of breath. _Damn, I could kiss him right now._

It was true. He could have. All he had to do was turn around, face Jude, and just…plant one on him. But the timing wasn't exactly right. Normally, he was all for jumping into things—especially when women were involved, however, it was different when it came to guys. Especially when this particular guy happened to be his best friend. He had to take it slow because, if he played his cards right, he would get a kiss in return (and maybe more). However, if he went too fast and screwed things up, he would get a punch in the nose. And, quite frankly, he was perfectly happy with his nose just the way it was. That, and he liked kissing better, anyway.

"There," he heard Jude say with one final tug on the bow.

Slowly, he turned around to face him, a small smirk forming on his lips.

"Thanks." He gestured back to the mess of bowls, measuring cups and spoons, and ingredients and raised his eyebrows. "Shall we?"

۞۞۞

"No, we're not putting _peanuts_ in! What the hell—? They'll taste like shite!"

"Aww, c'mon, Judey!" Max protested. "Why not? It'd give 'em a little kick, y'know?"

"_No,_" he said firmly. "Besides that, we don't have any peanuts, anyway—probably because you ate them all, what with this new peanut craze that you're on all of a sudden. You're certain you're not high?"

"_No, _I'm not _high._ That's why I'm baking cookies, remember?"

"What the hell is it, then?" he pondered in exasperation. Suddenly, he narrowed his eyes in mock-seriousness. "Max…are you pregnant?"

His best mate grimaced. "Hell no. I don't ever wanna have kids."

"You positive?" He raised his eyebrows in skepticism. "You sure you don't have somebody growing in there?" he joked, lightly poking his friend in the stomach.

Max kicked at him, hands dropping to cover his belly protectively.

"Knock it off, man! That—" Max stopped abruptly, pressing his lips together before he said anything more.

"That what?" he asked, grinning. "You don't mean to tell me that you're ticklish, do you?"

"Jude, I'm warning you, don't you _dare_."

"Nah, I'm saving this bit of knowledge for later use—when you don't expect it."

Max rolled his eyes, absentmindedly rubbing the spot where he had been poked.

"Yeah, and after tickling each other 'til we piss ourselves, we can have a topless pillow fight."

"I'd've thought that you would like that!" he exclaimed, pretending to sulk. "You're being awfully moody today."

"Maybe I'm _pregnant_," Max replied sarcastically.

"Hope not. You're a pain in the arse enough when you're ill or hungover—I don't want to imagine you pregnant."

"Couldn't agree with you more," Max replied. "Some girls can pull it off, but between you and me, I don't think pregnancy would be flattering to my figure at all." To emphasize his point, he did a little spin, causing the pale pink apron to billow gracefully out around his fine, lissome form.

_Damn_… He had to bit his lip to keep from uttering anything out loud and at the same time he kept hearing Lucy's voice in his head:

"_Androgyny suits you, Max._"

How true that was. This wasn't the first time he had noticed how very like a woman his best mate looked. While there were many words to describe Max Carrigan, 'handsome' was not one of them. The boy was pretty, plain and simple. When they had first met, they had gone out to a bar where some old sod had hit on the American. Truthfully, he couldn't blame the bugger—Max possessed a rare sort of beauty that attracted both women and men. One man in particular, who was really more of a boy than a man.

Him.

He had a crush on Max.

Shite.

It was bad enough that he had been (was) attracted to the guy's sister, but Max himself?

Not only was the notion absurd, but even if it _was _true (and he had a feeling that it was) the fact still remained that Max liked girls. Max like _a lot _of girls.

He liked girls, too. But, apparently, he also liked Max. A lot.

Well…shite.

By the time he had come to this conclusion, his American friend had returned to baking and was currently holding large bowl, balancing it on his slender hip all the while mixing the ingredients together with a wooden spoon.

"Think this is mixed up enough?"

He peered into the bowl, moving closer to his friend as he did, so close that their foreheads were but an inch apart, so close that he could catch Max's scent—cigarettes and…something sweet and fruity. Strawberries?

"Yeah, looks good," he said quietly. "Uh, did you remember to add raisins?"

"Yes, _mother_," Max sighed in exasperation. "What else do you think those black, wrinkly lumps are?" The American rolled his eyes and began spooning liberal amounts of batter onto a cookie sheet.

"So how long are we supposed to bake this stuff for, anyway?"

"'Bout eleven minutes, I think," he replied, sliding the cookies into the oven and setting Sadie's egg timer.

"You _think?_" Max asked, a grin forming on his lips—soft, pink, tempting lips.

"I'm _certain_," he responded, rolling his eyes.

"Uh huh," was all Max said, having become distracted by what little batter remained inside the bowl. Without another word, he dipped his finger inside, emerged with a glob of batter, and slowly raised it to his mouth. "Mmm…oh my _God_…" He shook his head and said sincerely around a mouthful of batter, "Jude, I swear, I'll never doubt you again, man. This shit is _amazing_." Then, as if suddenly remembering his manners, Max stuck his hand into the bowl again and held a batter-coated finger out to him, his eyelids lowered.

"Wanna lick?"

He was teasing him. That tantalizing bastard—he was trying to seduce him, he had to be! It didn't make sense, but…was it possible that…Max wanted him as much as he wanted Max?

He glanced at his friend, saw the heated look in those bright blue eyes, and decided to take a chance. If Max could tease him, then he could tease right back.

"No thanks. Me mum always said that you're not supposed to eat that stuff anyway. Said the uncooked eggs can give you salmonella or something."

Max scoffed in disbelief.

He shrugged mildly. "Suit yourself. I just don't wanna hear '_Judeeey_, I don't feel well; _Judeeey_, my stomach hurts' later tonight when you're ill with food poisoning."

"Man, you've got me so wrong," Max said huffily. "And since when do you listen to your dear old '_mum's'_ advice, anyway?"

"Since she taught me how to make oatmeal raisin cookies that were fucking fantastic," he shot back.

The American rolled his eyes before slowly withdrawing his outstretched finger and bringing it to meet his lips. It was a long, seductive process—Max took his time sliding his finger into his mouth, sucking gently, and then carefully pulling the digit out to lick it clean. And all the while, Max's eyes never left his.

Max smiled at him with relish, sticky finger still hovering near his lips.

He swallowed and took a step forward.

"Uh, you got some on you," he quietly pointed out.

"Oh?" Max raised his eyebrows, sitting the bowl down and watching him as he took another step forward. "Where?"

"Um, right…" He drew closer. "Right…" He raised his hand. It brushed against Max's hip. "Here…" He leaned in.

And gently licked the corner of Max's small, pink mouth.

The American closed his eyes, making a noise deep within his throat.

"Jude…" he whispered huskily, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. "Judey…"

And then he was kissing him. And strangely enough, Max was gentle about it. The kiss wasn't hard and desperate, brought on by longing and deprivation. Rather, it was quiet and simple—not hesitant, merely soft. Almost chaste, in a way—hardly what he would have expected from Max.

He decided to deepen the kiss—just a little—lightly running his tongue over Max's lips, tasting but not entering. His friend moaned, eyelashes fluttering. He took that as his cue to take it even further. Slowly, he slid his tongue over Max's lips again, at the same time bringing a hand up to cup the blonde's cheek, stroking the spot just behind his ear.

Then, without warning, he pressed their mouths together roughly. Lips parted and tongues explored in a whirlwind of heat and passion. His fingers became entangled with soft, golden hair that smelled like strawberries as Max clung desperately to his hips, pulling him closer, needing more. His hand roamed down Max's bare back, and he glided his fingers up and down the other boy's spine, feeling him shiver happily in response.

Max's tongue swirled inside of his mouth, warm and wonderful, working so well with his own. Suddenly, the American grabbed the back of his head, pressing him forward, crushing their lips together with bruising force. He moaned into the kiss, taking over once more, this time sliding his tongue into Max's mouth. The blonde let him, emitting several tiny whimpers as he was backed into the counter.

He broke away with a gasp, pressing a trail of soft, quick kisses along Max's jaw line, his throat, his collarbone…while the smaller boy leaned against the counter, breath coming in short bursts as Max let his hands drop from his hips to slip his fingers through the belt loops of his, Jude's, trousers, as if the blonde was too spent to hold his arms up on his own.

In the back of his mind beat the words _this is wrong, this is wrong, this is wrong_. And it was. Or it should have been. It should have been a lot of things: Strange, weird, sick, bizarre. He liked women. He didn't like blokes. Never in his life had he been attracted to a single one of them, but…_Max_… He should have shied away from Max's obvious advances, not been turned on by them—hell, he had _encouraged_ them! There was something about the damn American, something decidedly feminine-yet-boyish at the same time. But that made no sense! He should have blamed it on the pot, then, on the liquor and whatever other intoxicant that could have loosened his mind enough to make him want _this_. Except there was nothing for it; he certainly couldn't pin it on sobriety. In that case, he should have used his head—his _main _head—and not allowed it to continue any further. Because it was wrong. And strange. Not to mention weird, sick, and bizarre. Except that, even though he knew that it was all of those things, it didn't feel that way. It felt real, comfortable, and perfectly natural. Max. Here. With him, in his arms, lips against lips. Real. Natural. Strange, but…yes, it was right.

Pressing one final kiss to the hollow of Max's throat, he leaned in so that their foreheads were touching. He smiled, panting hard as Max's eyes fluttered open and he looked up at him, a wry smirk twisting his features.

"Fuck…Jude…" he heard the other boy whisper breathlessly, blonde head dropping to rest in the crook of his neck.

"I gotta ask, mate… How long have you been wanting t'do that?"

Max didn't answer at first, simply leaned against him, hands resting lightly against his chest.

"Mmm, long time," he murmured finally. "You?"

He gave a small nod, seeing no reason to deny it, now, especially considering the fact that the object of his thus-far hidden affections was currently nibbling delicately at his ear in a rather arousing fashion. "A while, yeah."

The blonde grinned, blue eyes alight with wicked triumph.

"Knew it."

And Max leaned in and captured his mouth again.

۞۞۞

This was good. This was perfect. It felt so right—like their lips met and everything just…_clicked_. It was, strangely enough, like when they had first met. It didn't matter that he had been in a hurry, that he'd been too distracted to really take any time and think about what was happening or what he was feeling. He hadn't really noticed at the time, anyway. It was only after that first encounter—after he had run into Jude for a second time and actually spoken with the guy that he had begun to realize just how comfortable he was around the Brit. Not in the same way he was at ease with practically everyone else, no, with Jude it was different. Somehow in some way Jude felt _right_. Their connection had been instantaneous. He simply hadn't discovered this until that second meeting when he noticed just how glad he was to see the guy again.

And now…this. This was better, felt more _right_ than he ever could have imagined. Like everything else in his life, it seemed, this wasn't a big deal. He simply went with it, and it was great.

His arms were wrapped around Jude's neck, one leg encircling his waist, and he buried his face in the other boy's shoulder, breathing his scent (art supplies and green apples), and simply let himself be. And Jude got this, Jude went with it—and enjoyed it. Jude held him to him and stroked his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead before lifting him up and onto the counter.

From his new position, he looked down into thoughtful brown eyes, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth, and reached out to affectionately ruffle the dark hair.

Jude took the reaching hand and brought it to his lips, kissing each one of his fingers, dark eyes never leaving his own. His smile widened as he scooted forward until he was teetering on the edge of the counter, bringing his legs up and wrapping them around Jude's waist in a silent gesture to bring him closer. His friend complied at once, resting his hands lightly on his hips, tilting his face up to kiss him again.

_Trrrrriiiiiiiiing!_

The egg timer trilled its signal, shuddering violently on the countertop mere inches behind him.

They both jumped—Jude actually emitting a yelp of surprise as he stumbled backwards. Unfortunately, his legs were still around the Brit's waist, and he found himself being pulled away from his perch, falling in a tangle of arms and legs, and landing on his ass with a crash that sounded just as painful as it felt.

"Oww…"

"Shit," Jude cursed, tripping over his own feet, torn between helping him up and seeing to their cookies. In the end, he chose the baked goods.

"Fucker," he muttered to Jude's back as the Brit hurriedly grabbed a pair of garishly flowered potholders and pulled the cookies from the oven. After setting them on top of the stove, his friend finally turned back to him, tossing the potholders aside unceremoniously as he made his approach.

"They need to cool for a while."

"So does my ass," he snapped, glaring up at him from his place on the floor. "That fuckin' _hurt_, damnit."

Jude smirked, extending a hand to help in hauling him to his feet.

"S'okay, mate," he murmured, gently placing a hand on his hip and slowly pulling him closer. Their noses touched. "I'm sure I can make it better."

۞۞۞

Originally, this story contained more smut (not a whole lot more, but enough so that it was no longer PG-13). Then I thought that, since this is to be the story of Max and Jude's first kiss, I might want to take things a little slow. However, if there is anyone that would prefer the smuttier version, I would be glad to e-mail it to them. :)

**Notes**

Oatmeal Raisin Cookies – to be honest, I'm not very happy with this title. If somebody could come up with something better, don't hesitate to tell me. :)

…a nice apple tart – referencing the Beatles' song "Savory Truffle." I'm actually surprised that I didn't make more references in this fic, because, as long as it is, you'd have thought that I would have been able to work more into it.

… British Betty Crocker reincarnate… - for some reason, I love the idea of Jude not only knowing how to cook, but also being incredibly meticulous about what ingredients he uses, how exactly he goes about mixing everything together, etc. I have no evidence to back this theory up, save for the fact that he was raised by his mother and that it's possible she taught him a thing or two. Like I said, it's just a cute idea, especially when he's paired with someone like Max who's idea of cooking consists basically of "Just throw some stuff together in a bowl, pop it in the oven for however long, _et __voilà_."

…he _hated_ feet… - so, not only does my Jude know how to cook, he also finds feet to be utterly revolting. Again, no reason other than I simply like to give characters traits that make them unique because it's my interpretation of said characters.

"I do not _whine_." – yes, he does. Seriously, even though there aren't any instances of this in the movie, Max has this child-like quality to him and thus comes off as the type of guy who would whine if he was ever sick or needed help with something. However, because it's Max, it wouldn't be obnoxious, but endearing.

"You don't mean to tell me that you're ticklish, do you?" – foreshadowing for a fic to come, perhaps? I'm still deciding.

"_Androgyny suits you, Max._" – it does. Excuse the fangirl moment, but Joe Anderson is just simply one very man-pretty guy. And I don't mean to say that he's a Pretty Boy—there's a difference. By man-pretty, I mean that he could play a girl in a movie and not only be convincing, but look hot on top of that. Johnny Depp is another example. Both actors have features that are masculine and yet there is something delicate and feminine about them at the same time. So, in the movie, I love the line about Max wearing Sadie's shirts because, to me, it just confirms the fact that Max knows what a beautiful boy he is and that he can totally get away with wearing girls' clothing (and still look hot).

…mixing the ingredients together with a wooden spoon – a wooden spoon that conjures up so many kinky images, I'm sure. Especially after watching _Becoming Jane _and seeing Joe Anderson holding a cricket bat. I'll admit that my immediate reaction was, "Hmm…Jude's from England. Wonder if he ever played cricket? Wonder, if he did, if he brought his cricket bat with him to America? Wonder if he and Max ever—okay, I need to stop." Yeah. Basically.

…his _main _head… - hooray for _Coupling _references! As a Jack Davenport fan, how could I not include one?

**Disclaimer****:** If I owned _Across the Universe_, then Max never would have been sent to Vietnam and "I Want You" would have been a sex scene. That said, obviously, I own nothing. Everything belongs to either Julie Taymor or the Beatles. Except for Max, who I am convinced belongs to no man (no matter how much Uncle Sam wants him) and Jude who is Max's bitch. Seriously, think about it. While Max may be the more feminine of the two, Jude is clearly his bitch. Look at all of the things he did just because Max asked him to: He helped him hide from his fellow classmates, he went home with him for Thanksgiving, he moved to New York with him instead of going back to Liverpool, and when he was deported he came back to the US because Max asked him to. So, yeah. Max owns Jude and I own nothing. I'm just having some good, slashy fun. Please don't sue me.


End file.
